Birder's Eye View: Alas, Tybee Island's snowy owl has left us

I made the pre-dawn trek to the south end of Tybee Island nearly three weeks after the red-letter day when the snowy owl was first seen atop a Strand Avenue condo.

I climbed the steps to the boardwalk over the dunes and scanned the building tops, chimneys, air conditioners and roof edges. I saw gulls, grackles, pigeons and a Cooper's hawk perched on a light post.

I waited in expectation, but no broad-winged white bird with startlingly yellow eyes flew in to perch on his favorite spot.

As the sun rose, I decided to walk out on the pier to get a better view of the rooftops.

Usually, I do most of my Tybee Island bird watching at the less crowded north end of the island.

The south end bustles with surfers, kite flyers, beachcombers, honeymooners and fishermen.

Surprisingly, it also has a lot of birds.

From the elevated vantage point of the pier, I stared down at a flock of large shorebirds feeding actively at the edge of the water.

As the waves rushed in, 40 willets turned to run toward the shore. When the water receded, the birds headed toward the ocean, probing and plucking tasty treats from beneath the sand.

While they are walking and feeding, willets can only be described as drab, with grayish backs, bluish-gray legs and sturdy dark beaks. Only when they spread their wings does their distinctive beauty emerge - a bold black-and-white stripe on each wing.

Another willet secret is the ones that spend the winter on Lowcountry beaches are not the same willets that nest here during the summer.

These winter willets are slightly larger and grayer. They nest near fresh water on western prairies and grasslands, and migrate to both coasts in the fall. Our summer resident willets spend the winter in the mangrove forests of northern Brazil and Suriname.

While I was watching the willets fly, I glanced out into the ocean to see the water boiling with activity. A huge flock of cormorants was swimming, diving and then erupting into flight.

Above them, gannets, pelicans, gulls and terns hovered and plummeted into the teeming mass of birds.

A fisherman on the pier cleared up the mystery. "They're after a school of mullet," he commented with a soft Irish lilt to his voice.

While the gannets, willets, cormorants, ducks, sparrows and snowy owl are winter visitors, the rock pigeons on the rail reminded me that late February on Tybee Island is almost spring.

The male pigeon puffed and strutted.

The female chased one male away and turned to a second to touch bills and preen feathers.

Perched atop a nearby post, a male boat-tailed grackle broke out in his harsh, unmelodic version of a love song.

There was certainly no shortage of bird activity while I was waiting in vain for the snowy owl.

Still, I can't help but hope. Perhaps he just took a mini-vacation on Little Tybee.

Maybe he'll be back tomorrow.

Maybe he has begun his journey north to the Arctic.

Will some early morning jogger on Hilton Head look up to see a distinctive white shape soar silently overhead?

Until there is news, I fear I will continue to haunt Strand Avenue at sunrise.

Later that afternoon, as I sat on my dock, I caught the tones of a rich liquid trill, missing since last summer.

A pair of purple martins circled above my martin house several times, announcing with chirps and twitters, "We're back!"

At dusk, I looked at my gourds and a female purple martin staring back at me.